I took the girls shopping for school clothes last week at our teeny-tiny local mall. One store had a coloring station for children, and by the time we walked out of the shop, Saoirse held a fat stack of completed pages in her hand. She was calling the papers her “book,” and there were a LOT of pages, can I just tell you? The stack was huge. But she told me I couldn’t read the book yet because it wasn’t finished.
The next day, the stack had grown. Added to it were sheets of scrap paper, notebook pictures, scribbles and stick figures, all stapled together. I asked her if I could read it, and again, she said that I could when it was finished, but that it wasn’t complete yet.
She said that it would take one–“no, two”–Christmases and two summers, but that by the third summer, the book would be ready enough to read. David was putting lunch together, laughing, while Saoirse was telling me this. He said, “Yep, that sounds about right,” and put her plate on the table in front of her.
I’m a mom. I’ve become a writer. And it appears that I’m trying to make both a full-time job.
I’ll let you know how I do.
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